AN: Written for Sabriel Week's Day 5 Prompt: Angst/Fluff. I started out Full Angst Ahead...and then got a little maudlin. So, you get diet-angst. There's character death in this, but it's okay. Really.
How It Ends
Now you've seen his face
And you know that there's a place in the sun
For all that you've done
- Devotchka, "How It Ends"
There's a picture on the bedside table. Dean and Cas, Sam and Gabriel, taken soon after the world didn't end. Apocalypse averted, they'd found the nearest 24 hour diner and ordered five kinds of pie. The woman who served them had snapped the picture with Sam's phone; Dean sits with his arm thrown around Cas's shoulders; Gabriel's stealing the chocolate cream pie from Sam's fork (and winking at the camera as he does it).
Sam puts the picture down; he can see his reflection in the clean glass and marvels at the contrast of youth and age. How did they get from there to here? How did ten years turn into twenty, into thirty? How did Sam and Dean Winchester wind up old men?
A cough followed by a shuttering breath draws Sam's attention to the bed, where Dean is sitting—fully dressed and on top of the covers, thank you very much (he'd drawn the line at looking like an invalid)—propped up by pillows. He doesn't look too shabby for a man on his death bed; Sam says as much and tucks the bright, shit-eating grin Dean shoots him in the back of his memory for safe keeping.
"You tell that Archangel-in-law of mine he'd better look after you. Don't want any mishaps. I expect to see your ass in Heaven."
"Got it," says Sam and if his voice is a little watery, neither of them mentions it.
"Sam. Dean." Cas stands in the doorway, having shed the illusion of age that he's been carrying with him these last twenty years, and it's so strange to see him smooth skinned, dark haired. "It's time. You should wait outside, Sam."
Sam nods, grasps Dean's hand once more and then lets him go. There are some things humans, even the Winchesters, aren't meant to see. And there are some things Sam doesn't want to see. But he does tuck away the sight of Castiel kneeling at Dean's side, the way their hands meet and tangle; it's the last thing he sees before he shuts the door.
He heads for the porch, finds Gabriel on the patio swing licking the remains of an ice cream cone off wrinkled fingers. It's still somewhat strange to see Gabriel in the visage of this wizened old man: white haired and spectacled and looking as if he should launch into a tale of the "Good Ol' Days" any second now.
Gabriel had done this all for Sam.
The first time Sam discovered a white hair on his head, Gabriel "found" two on his own.
As the passing years traced themselves into Sam's body, he found varied lines mirrored on Gabriel's. Mix of archangel's grace and trickster magic. And even if Gabriel let the facade drop when Sam wasn't around, it was enough. It was an illusion. It was a lie. But it was a lie Sam could believe in.
"Hey, kiddo." Sixty years old and Gabriel still calls him kiddo; of course, what was sixty to millennia?
Sam sits heavily on the swing, sliding in tight next to Gabriel's body, seeking the inhuman warmth to ease the ache in his bones, his chest.
They don't say anything. They swing. They watch as the stars come out and when a fiery streak—bright as a small sun—etches itself across the sky, Gabriel grips Sam's hand or maybe Sam grips Gabriel's. They stare at the streak until it disappears into the blue-black night and only then does Sam breathe.
There were no reapers involved. No visit from Death. They were unnecessary when you had your own express elevator to Heaven.
"It'll be okay," Gabriel says, leaning his head against Sam's, fingertips brushing tears from Sam's cheeks.
And Sam knows.
In time—maybe months, maybe even years—they will follow in Dean and Cas's wake.
Gabriel will carry Sam's soul tucked against his grace and they will streak across the night sky, brighter and faster than any shooting star.
End